A wreck
of elephants

that took root:
the homeless

settle inside
channels

of its dugout
canoes

lined with
faded drapes.

The dog-sitter’s
body

sickles against
his leash

of horny mutts.
Pigeons blink

amber oil
and bone.

Three girls
with heels

and skirts
too high

and hyacinths
blinking from

their crowbar
waists

ring-a-round
a lamppost,

its steepled
hat aslant,

a drunken
clown.

And I
the watcher

am being
watched.

My arm
drapes

across
a cankled root,

my heels
fused, knees

spread,
void between

like a dugout
canoe:

the cardboard
sketch the man

with blinking eyes
hands me.

And in return,
I rip out

the poem
this one was.

We even
trade.

He slips
into

his banyan tree’s
dugout canoe.

I uncap
my pen

and turn
the page.